Island of Intangible Treasure
by MiraMizu15
Summary: Captain Arthur Kirkland thinks he has everything: wealth, power, and now a captive that could be the key to revenge and riches beyond his wildest dreams. What he doesn't have is something only the fiery girl can give him, if only he can learn how to let her. Human AU.
1. Loathing

**::A/N:: I don't own Hetalia, nor do I claim rights to the image used for this story.**

****So this is just a SeychellesxEngland. Basically, it's a human AU, and I'll be filling in the margins of common history, although this is completely fictitious- as far as I'm concerned. It's from Seychelles POV. ****

****I found this in my writing collection and thought I would post it, so if nobody likes it, it won't go anywhere. I have three other stories in the works right now, -sigh-, so this should be an interesting experiment for me... ****

**Bonnefoy = Francis Bonnefoy**

**Read, enjoy, review~ No reviews, no continuation ^.^**

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><p><em>Summer, 1623<em>

The man standing before me is unlike any man I have ever seen before, apart from perhaps, Papa. His eyes are a deep green, the color of the leaves on my island. His hair is a pale-golden, the color of the flowers that bloom in summer. His skin is pale and untouched by the sun's rays, the color of the sand on my beaches. But his heart, his heart is blacker than anything I have ever laid eyes on. It is blacker than nuit, for nuit is at least pierced by the stars and the moon. His darkness is pierced by nothing.

His fingers are wrapped around my shoulder in a grip that is so painful, I cannot feel it anymore. Non, the fingers are too strong, calloused from years of working their ship. It is simply a numbing sensation now. All I feel is the sea tossing beneath my feet and the wood of the vessel chafing the golden-brown skin of my legs.

The room we are in so uncomfortably together must be his cabin. The places that are not piled high with maps of conquest, are littered with his winnings. Treasure, the most beautiful example of man-made creation I have ever seen, is piled carelessly in every corner. Golden coins are caught between floorboards, his books marked with silk page holders, his papers weighted down by fat, sparkling jewels. Even the skeleton that stands for mere mockery by his polished mahogany desk is bedazzled with pearls and crowns. I can only imagine the poor princesses that lost their tiaras, maybe their lives and virginity, to this black, soulless man.

This is the man who stole me away from Francis. Mon p_è_re, as Francis likes me to call him. Papa Francis was – no, still is – my papa. This man before me, this man will never tame me as he wishes. I see in the pits of his eyes that he wants to break me. He wants to chain my soul and whip my body. I shall never let him break my spirit. He may use my form all he likes, for he will be the only one who regrets it when my temple is ravaged. Or maybe he will not after it is he who breaches me. Maybe he will discard me for no one else to use. Maybe then he will be satisfied.

"Do not test me, wench. I shall make you miserable," his voice says, so foreign to me. However, I understand the words coming from between the pale lips. Papa Francis deemed it necessary to teach me the tongue of the English. Simply to know it, he said, but if I was lucky, he had continued adamantly, I would never have to come into contact with a filthy Brit. I asked him how he would be lucky (I was very young). He told me that he would be lucky if I could stay with him forever. Oh, Papa, I suppose we are not lucky on either count.

"Why do you wish to make this so damn difficult, you bloody whore?" the Englishman spits at me, standing in frustration. His heavy boots kick coins out of the way as he begins to pace.

"I have no allegiance to you!" I announce, holding in a gasp as the feeling returns to my shoulder.

"You are _mine_! Mine!"

"Non, I am no one's!"

"You are that scoundrel Bonnefoy's!"

"Do not call my Papa a scoundrel!"

"Y...your **papa**?"

"Oui!"

"That little perverse frog!"

"He was kind to me! Unlike you!"

"He didn't rape you?" For a moment, this dark, vicious man is actually surprised.

"Non, you little bastard! How dare you? Leave us alone!"

"'Leave you alone'? You are my property now, wench. Get that into your savage brain!"

"Do not call me a savage!" I scream.

The strike comes harshly across my cheek. The stinging only fuels my fiery loathing. Never before has someone made me so _angry_.

Captain bends down, his face inches away from mine. I imagine we look something like yin and yang, pale and dark. I spit in the yin. He staggers back, and a lovely string of curses ensue.

"You little bitch. You dare show such disrespect?" he whispers, wiping the spittle from his cheek.

I pull uselessly on the ropes that bind my wrists to the wall. "I only show respect to people who are worth something!"

He leans so close to me, I can smell him, smell the sea salt, the rum, and the freedom that cling to his clothes and hair. "I believe that you will realize I am worth something when I am the one who dictates whether you live in misery or die in blessed happiness."

"You will never have me in the way you wish. Never. I will die before you get what you desire from me." It does not matter that he has me now. Non, for he needs my spirit to bend the will of my people.

"It is not a reaction from you I hope for, love, and here I was thinking we could have a jolly good time together, you and I," he smirks, "But we can't if you're dead, can we?"

All I can think of, is that this man is more like Yin then he knows. Yin seems light on the outside, but in reality, its center is as dark as pitch.

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><p><strong>::AN:: Okay so French translation (I don't know how to type the accents that should be in some of these words, so I don't have them, I do know they're there)**

**Oui (French) = Yes  
><strong>**Nuit (French) = Night  
><strong>**Mon p**_**è**_**re (French) = My father  
><strong>**Non (French) = No**


	2. Animosity

**::A/N:: I don't own Hetalia**

**So, I'm terribly sorry this has taken so long, my PruHun story has seen to taking up my limited time. But now, I will upturn the balance of the world by saying that my midterms have arrived, and I should have plenty more time to write because of it! Yeah, I didn't make sense in my head either...**

**I apologize for the short update, but I am still figuring the mechanics of this story out. I'm also no longer updating my PruHun due to an indeterminate hiatus, so I miss the feeling of updating, which is why I decided to present this to you ^^ I hope to have more soon... **

**It's funny because these are shorter chapters than I am used to posting, and I think I am going to continue with this. **

**Hope you enjoy!**

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><p>My breath ghosts into the air around me, waltzing in the sea breeze before dissipating easily into the night, free to fly into whatever land it so desires. Why can my breath escape this nightmare so simply? Why cannot I follow it into the days of waking, into the sun, and the jungle, and the smiling faces of those I love? Even the darker memories of suspense, and disobedience, and living outside a law I knew nothing about were better than this feeling of unrequited entrapment.<p>

Now that I have tasted this _law _I want nothing to do with it, if it allows men to flit between the lives of the innocent without a care for the destruction they cause.

I cannot bear to love a law that allows the likes of this infernal captain to walk uncharted.

With an enchanting sigh, the wind takes a strand of my hair and twirls it around in a teasing dance, taunting me to follow it over the side, to simply jump to freedom. _Take the chance_, it whispers, _follow and take the chance. _But I know what really lurks under the tainted depths of this foreign sea. Serpents, and witches, and creatures that no one can name. Freedom is not so easy as that.

A moment later, I shake the thought away. It's ridiculous. This is all ridiculous. On this ship I am exposed to monstrosities of equivalent evil.

He thinks this "little excursion" onto the deck will _placate _me. He thinks this will help me to "cooperate" and "see the light, love".

My fingers dig into the wood of the rail, frustration causing my muscles to pull taught against the strain of my heart. Even this _cedar _is something foreign to me. The people, the wood, the supplies, the food, the _language. _It's all foreign and unwelcoming. My nails dig deeper and splintering needles fall across my palm, stabbing into the skin there.

I growl with barely controlled displeasure.

He even has the nerve to keep me in the dark about why I am on this dismal vessel.

"Hey, bonny wench!" calls a thick accent, disrupting my few moments of blessed recluse.

I whirl as a drunken pirate stumbles across the deck towards me, eyes hazy with confusion and the unmistakable taint of liquor. I immediately put up my guard. I am all too familiar with scoundrels who no stranger to the temporary comfort of alcohol. Men like him seek solace on the shores of my island, hundreds of them coming and going and drinking the sun out of the sky. It is poison, and this fool of a man is riddled with it. "Are you talking to me?" I snap after a moment of allowing my practiced English to assert itself.

"Aye, lassie. Wanna... come to me cabin, bitch?" His gait is caught on an unkempt coil of rope, and he lurches dangerously, mind taken up by the struggle to remain on two feet, as his shock of red hair falls into his eyes.

I snort and place my back to him, hoping this refusal to answer will baffle him into stumbling away. It does not.

Instead, he insinuates obscenities by trying to grab my arm. I whirl, and slap him across the face. "Don't you touch me." Furiously, I slam my hands against his chest and shove, sending him stumbling back, further into the center of the deck, where his poor balance finally does him in. He topples to the ground, nature laughing at the amount of _rum _this foul heathen has consumed.

I join in the mirth. It's so foolish. Even Captain's crew mates are despicable and vile, suiting examples of the failures that the great European Power churns out of its successful machines.

I do not bother returning my attention to the pirate behind me, rather, I let my face be raced across by the ocean's breath. If my experience with the wild side of life is anything to go by, the pirate is undoubtedly enjoying the several long hours of dreaming that come before the staggering realization that those merciless headaches never become any less painful. By the significant lack of garbled cursing, I can assure myself I am right. Despite their immediate danger, drunkards always manage to walk into slumber before causing any real harm.

A long sigh escapes my throat. I remind myself slowly and steadily that I must stay unwavering. My head needs to remain high. I represent Papa, I represent myself, and I represent the spirit of Seychelles. My beautiful island is always in my heart, guiding me to freedom. There is a brighter light in this darkness, and I must be strong enough to find it.

With that reminder at the forefront of my resolve, I decide to head back to Captain's quarters. It is best not to push my boundaries so early on. Unlike Papa, he is not one to be trifled with.

Almost subconsciously, my fingers gently caress the bruises that encircle my wrists, constant reminders of the bindings I met Captain in.

Feeling as "refreshed" and "calm-headed" as one can when heading back to an abusive master, I begin to turn away from the southern ocean and face the northern instead, where Captain's home lies; England. I can only assume that is our destination.

As I take my first step, one thought goes through my head. Why has the moonshine been blocked out?

Then, the profile of a man hallowed by moonlight fills my sight. Two giant's hands push against me, and a thick Scottish accent snarls, "Ye should ne have declined me offer, bitch," before I am thrown painfully against the cedar railing, toppling over it, and falling through space, with only a scream to accompany me down.

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><p><strong>::AN::**

**The Scottish man is Scotland, of course. I am taking this slowly on purpose. My next update will be soon!**

**Alert/Review/Favorite**


	3. Minor Revelations

**::A/N:: I don't own Hetalia**

**Hello all! I wanted to update this for Valentine's Day, although it's hardly romantic XD Enjoy~**

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><p>I scream as I hurtle towards the blackness below me. The pirate cackles as I tumble away from him, but the words he yells are blessedly taken from my ears by the wind's deft fingers, instead replacing the vulgarities with a deafening howl as I am dragged earthward in a tangle of limbs. My windy companion tries and fails to cushion me, surrounding my body in a harmless cocoon of billowing desperation. Why did I come out onto the deck? Why didn't I just fetch Captain? How soon until I hit the water? Will it hurt? Will anyone come back for me? Why did I let this happen?<p>

The stinging, searing, brainwashing impact sears away all thoughts from my mind. The water is freezing, a frigid fist wrapping its frozen claws around my chest. I plunge into the maw and its black jaws close over my head.

This ocean is nothing like the ocean of my home. It is foul and seething in its great expanse. It revels in its freedom and hates those who dare to sail its surface, like it is merely a flat plane of transportation. It has lost the great dignity of ages ago, when it was respected as an ally, when ancient peoples prayed to its raging messengers that crashed against rocky shores. The ocean remembers when it was feared as a power and not as an unknown entity. It remembers when it was strong. And now its glory is stolen, its soul's incarnate used as a mere vessel, its power undermined as the people believe it to be thwarted. They believe it fallen, weakened, inanimate.

But I know the ocean's beating heart, its inner fury, its silent power, its deadly volatility. The ocean from my home is still treated in equality for it is so much greater than anything we know above. It is so much deeper than any outer layer. It is a powerful expanse of ancient memories, or swallowed history, of golden ages lost.

And now it is swallowing me.

I desperately struggle with the currents, trying to force my way to the surface. My primal need to survive vanquishes everything else, it takes root in my heart and surges through my muscles. But really, I fight to be free of this gripping, grappling panic. Panic that I cannot be rid of because I remember the feeling of air in my lungs and institutionalized within me is the need to preserve that. But I cannot win that way.

So, with rigid self control, I just let it go. Instead of blinding myself, I open my eyes. The pulse of the sea stares back at me, filling me and everything around me, welcoming me into itself. It is completely and totally alone, but yet, it is so great, so archaic, so large that it only needs itself. I am nothing in comparison. I may feel old and be lonesome, but I am nothing in comparison to this. This ancient breadth of silence and wonder. Of lives lead in solitary happiness, brushing with other creatures before separating again. It is beautiful and complex.

Slowly, I float to the surface, eyes still taking in everything around me. It allows me to ascend slowly towards air and moonlight and to my fate. I smile softly, thanking this being for lengthening my time, for allowing me this moment of freedom. But it cannot last.

With a surge of energy I throw myself into the stinging night air, coughing and choking, exhausting myself further with this new effort to remain afloat.

Garbled, incoherent commotion is taking place on the great ship that now towers above me. I hear frantic shouting, and then one voice breaks out over all the rest.

"HOLD THE COURSE, YOU FOOLS. THROW THE LADDER, LOOSEN THE SAILS."

Suddenly, something plummets towards me, disappearing in the water feet from where I emerged. Heart pounding in my ears, I wait, splashing with every stroke of my hands.

A shaggy blond head erupts inches from me. I can barely discern his scowl in the darkness, but I know it's there. Without a word, he grabs my waist none too gently and his remaining arm begins to shoot over our heads, descending powerfully into the sea, churning a path towards the lagging boat before us.

I hear someone shouting commands above as a ladder is thrown over the side. Captain swims to it quickly, and shoves me up, icy hands gripping my hips through the soaked fabric of my dress. "Go," he hisses.

I oblige without much of a fight, clambering up the side of the ship and into the waiting arms of a crew member. He takes a strong hold of my upper arm, as though I am going to jump ship for a second time. As though I jumped in the first place.

My intense shaking throws off my vision so that I can barely see Captain gracefully pull himself aboard. Another sailor hands him his coat, sword, and hat. There seem to be five wavering images of each item. I shut my eyes, disoriented. His heavy footsteps come near me, and I am transferred into his grasp. I can smell the herb and rum scent of him even with the salt bath. With a grip that feels far worse than it is against my numb muscles, he drags me across the deck and into his cabin.

Immediately, the sensation of heat flows back to my body and I collapse, realizing that the only thing that was holding me upright were my stiff limbs. The captain releases me and disappears into the adjoining room, carrying his possessions with him. I quake waiting for him, both out of fear and cold. He finally returns with a heavy wool blanket that he drapes around my tiny frame.

I grip it like a dying man grips the hand of his lover. I hear a derisive snort, and I turn to glance up at the Englishman.

"You shouldn't have jumped if you were only going to freeze to death."

My eyes widen. "I-I d-didn't jum-mp."

"Of course you didn't. You think I don't know how much you hate it here? Don't try to lie to me now, girl."

My voice finds more strength as my bones stop crashing against one another. "Non! I am telling you the truth. I was pushed."

He cocks an eyebrow, and a golden ring imbedded there glints in the candlelight, now at a stark contrast to his temporarily stained hair. "Is that so?"

I nod, holding him with my accusatory eyes. How dare he denounce me of such?

"Don't bloody lie to me."

"Je ne suis pas!" I scream in my discomposure. Gritting my teeth against the desires to continue in such a manner, I begin again."I am not lying. Where would I go? I am bound here, for now."

He laughs, as though I have cleared up all illusions for him. "Let's assume I believe you. Who, would you claim, was the scoundrel that shoved ye into the raging sea?"

I struggle with a lack of information, of names, of clear memories. "I can point him out!" I finally cry.

Captain laughs, and turns away from me, beginning to unbutton his dripping shirt. When it falls to the floor in a sopping heap, I carefully avert my gaze from his bare skin. The sheen of wetness picks up the candlelight and dances it back to me in a hybrid pattern, a creole of language, a language that shoots the candle flame into my cheeks, causing them to burn red.

"It's okay to look, love. Haven't met a man or woman who can deny themselves," Captain drawls, eyes remaining fixed upon the translucent mirror against the wall.

"You act as though you are proud of that," I blurt, finding myself disgusted by this careless display of self-mockery.

Captain turns to me to blazon himself in full glory, all milk skin. My eyes glide along him, surfing this strange new revelation.

"I am."

I quickly look away at that, revolted. There is no decency.

Captain walks across to a desk positioned among a collection of scattered books. A shirt even whiter than his skin hangs across one corner of it, and he effortlessly slides this over his head. "How can I trust you to show an ounce of honesty, eh? You could claim any one of my crew harmed you. It wouldn't matter, I wouldn't put it past any of them. How do I know you will tell the truth?"

I smile and pull myself off his floor. "Because I want that bastard to know I am no fool."

Captain raises an eyebrow. "All the truth and only the truth, savvy?"

"Oui."

"Then come with me, love. Let's pull this rat out of the brig."


	4. Cracks

**::A/N:: Bonjour, mates! I don't own Hetalia.**

**When reading this chapter, please note that the following aspects have been changed in the plot.**

**-This is now an alternate universe where all the characters are human.**

**-This means that my original reason for Seychelles' capture is null and void. She was not taken from France for colonization purposes. At this point in time, the Seychelles islands are primarily undiscovered. Some brief historical notes can be found at the end of this chapter.**

**Thank you all for your incredible patience! Enjoy~**

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><p>"Him." The word drops from my tongue with a finality that even the disagreeable captain cannot readily deny.<p>

"Of course," he growls, lifting the revolver with impunity – for who would stop him? – towards the crumpled figure. "Scot, you bleeding imbecile, you had better be pissed drunk right now."

At Captain's obvious outrage, a crewman I do not know steps under the half-moon, and the pearly glow highlights the aesthetics of his face. He is as fair as Captain, but conversely sports a splattering of freckles across the slope of his nose and the plateaus of his cheekbones, the sienna circles visible even in the darkness, as though an artist showered extra love and ink over his skin. "He's dead to the world, Captain Kirkland," the man announces, clearly fearful of the consequences he could face for this bold defense. "He won't be awakenin' till the morn. Save yourself the trouble, brother."

My eyes quickly flick to Captain. Is that his surname? _Kirkland_? It sounds so docile, so normal; and is the man who called him that really his _brother_? Or is that a term of the seas, a title of bought endearment?

Captain grimaces, paying enough heed to the words of the wise man. "Leave him, then. The fool will regret his idiocy soon enough." He turns to address the rest of the assembled crew. "But listen here! If _any_ of you so much as touch this girl-," He yanks me out from behind his protection, puts my shivering body on display for the eyes of thirty men, "I will personally rip your balls off and make you feed them like sweets to the rats. Am I clear?"

A unanimous affirmative fills the air.

"Brilliant. Come on." He grabs my upper arm once more and begins leading me back to his rooms. "We have things to discuss, you and I."

The door shuts and the latch slides solidly into place. Only when I am caged does Captain feel secure, releasing me in favor of crossing to a table and pouring himself a shot of rum. He slumps, enervated, into a wooden chair and brushes the damp hair from his brow. He takes one swig of the shining amber poison, and only after it's half gone does he acknowledge his part in this situation. His gaze finally centers near my general vicinity; his eyes unwilling to connect with mine, his mind unwilling to open to the possibility of equal footing between a man and a woman.

"You wished to talk to me," I prompt, wrapping my arms around myself, allowing my insecurities and confusion to melt away in the fire of my hope, though presently typified by barely a candle's flame. Perhaps now I will receive the answers I seek. Perhaps now the thick hood will be lifted from my eyes and my purpose here will be explained.

"I did," Captain agrees, "So let's make this brutally simplistic. You're the Frenchman's little pet, yes?" He swirls the glass once.

"… Oui."

"The apple of his eye, the princess in his castle, the bitch to his leash?"

"Excusez-moi, mais-,"

"Aye, aye," Captain growls, clearly finished with listening to my language and my defense, "but you _are_ his 'beloved daughter'?"

"I would like to think so. He certainly makes it sound that way-,"

"Jolly touching," Captain snorts, eyes darkening and knuckles whitening against the seamless surface of the rum glass. "Now, when did Bonnefoy stumble onto your godforsaken island?"

I regard him suspiciously. "A few summers ago."

"For how much of that time have you two been acquainted?"

"All of it."

"He remained with you and your family?"

"No, I have no-," I check myself before answering with the opposite affirmative. "… Yes. He was there." My personal history is of no business to this man, and such somber thoughts have no business showing their faces here.

Captain takes a sip of his alcohol. Two-thirds empty. For a minute I bless its presence. Under such influence my slip of the tongue goes unnoticed.

"I suppose you are too young to remember anything but pirates on your island," he mutters, lips slick with the rum.

The tangent is sudden, but the statement is truth. I am too young to remember anything but those squatters. They are as part of the vista as the trees and the sand. In truth, my island was made from their greed, but I suppose Captain's question is rhetorical, and I care little to answer him when it is not required.

"My grandfather pillaged there in his day. Senile old bat," Captain mutters. The rum is drained, and a jerk of his chin creates a regained sense of purpose. "You mean a lot to Bonnefoy, Miss…?"

"Victoire," I whisper furiously, incredulously.

"Thank you, _Victoria_. You should remember I won't abide the language of frogs."

I stiffen, and he notes this with a smirk.

"I believe that concludes things," he states boldly, fingers grasping blind for the bottle of rum, forgoing the pleasantries of a glass altogether.

"Non, I think not."

His shoulder blades stiffen like protruding wings and his extended fingers curl backwards like talons to bite into the flesh of his palm. "Do you?"

"I want to know why I am on this ship. Why am I your prisoner?" My eyes flash.

He rotates in his seat. One arm drapes over the back of the chair. "I have already told you. You mean a lot to Bonnefoy, darling Victoria."

His words yield a theory I expect and dread with equal measure. "What do you plan on doing to Francis?" I give voice to fear, my mind playing out the terrible possibilities, and my heart clenches at the thought of my adoptive father being subjected to any such things.

"You're a very important chess piece, love," Captain drawls, showing nothing but irritated amusement. "But you have no word in your play. I will tell you what I see fit, when I see fit to disclose it. You have allowed yourself to become his Achilles heel, poppet, and you had better get used to your new station."

"Vous…vous êtes un monstre," I whisper, bitterness creeping across the terrain of my tongue and into the rich swirl of my dialect. "You are a monster!"

"I am many things." He is perfectly calm, perfectly under control. There is no emotion as he leaves my declaration unchallenged, generic, and vague.

"Who are you?"

He smirks. "My name is Captain Arthur Kirkland, love, and I'm sure you'll come to know what that means in due course."

I grit my teeth, momentarily staggered by the realization: _There's more evil behind these shining eyes than I can comprehend._

**...**

The morning welcomes me with one arm manacled to his bed post and the other tucked and tingling under my cheek, cushioning my skin from the rough expanse of the floor. It has been the same occurrence for the past three days, the same endless expanse of nothing. No land, no other ships, no birds silhouetted against the cerulean sky, and certainly no change in Captain's bitter facade. Each day the salt-laden air parches my mouth while its crystals cling to my skin and tangle my locks. But it is in these moments, when I rise before Captain, blinking in the beauty of the sun meeting the horizon and the ocean warming under the youthful rays, that I can remember peace.

In the position I am locked in I cannot sit up, but I am content to remain lulled in the ambiance and merely stare at the ceiling overhead as my neck lazily rolls with the rocking of the ship.

Each wooden panel above me was crafted of age and history. In these few periods of silence and serenity I like to fancy from where those trees came, for they must have been huge, scraggly points scraping clouds and leaves dusting for white shimmer. I can imagine the way the sun brushed with each individual leaf, setting its face sparkling for the rest of the tiny insignificant world to marvel at.

How many wars had those trees seen before they were shaved from the earth? How many famines and droughts? How many of the dead fed such great roots and were reborn in furling, luminescent canopies? It would be the burial worthy of a king to be showcased in such brilliance, to be lifted so high your face brushed the sky, to never again worry about the waking, walking world so far below.

I wonder if my family was given that honor.

I had surprised myself when I allowed Kirkland's questions to bring those harsh memories back to the surface of my mind. Papa Francis helped me to look beyond the tragedy in order to continue living my life, unburdened with the weight of guilt and blame, so heavy for one so young, he said. Perhaps it is his absence that ruins me now.

Kirkland grunts and I tear my gaze towards the bed, always fearful of his wakening, the memories of vice-like hands and stinging blows recalling themselves to my skin. He is a beast of a man, a blot upon humanity.

Yet, he is deceitful in slumber, with brittle eye lids drawn, blond halo askew. He would catch the breath of an angel and pull it from her body until she lay asphyxiated in the dirt. He would draw her in with tender lips and smooth brow, and she would be enchanted by the slope of his chest and the music that his body plucked from sinewy muscle and fluttering eyelash. For such foolishness, she would only lose. I know this to be true, and yet…

I force the metal bracelet into one solid connection with the metal bed rail. The resounding clatter drives every inane thought from my head, as the train careens down its tracks. The bed shudders as Captain jolts upright, eyes wide and clearly searching for the rat that disturbed his rest. When he finds me sitting smug, mocha legs tucked against the wooden floor, his sky blackens.

"What the bloody hell are you trying to do?" he grinds out, grabbing a fistful of my dark hair and tugging viciously. Our faces are inches apart, and there is a quiver in my voice and on my lips when I respond.

"Let me out of this cabin."

He sneers. "I thought you couldn't handle yourself, love. We wouldn't want you taking another unscheduled dip, now would we?"

"That wasn't my fault, I-"

He releases my hair, and a tingling sensation rushes along my scalp. "Be silent."

It is a demand I heed as he moves about the room, shedding clothes and donning new ones, eyes slightly unfocused, cheeks an unhealthy pale. He looks weak, but the embodiment of hatred should always be at its pinnacle to fuel the fires of the damned, and I hate him for the sag in his shoulders. "Sleep poorly, _Kirkland_?"

The tendons in his hand spasm. "Watch your boorish mouth."

A twinge of satisfaction sets fire in my belly. Lo and behold the iron captain reacts. "Nightmare or memories, _love_?"

His palm cracks against my ear and the ringing deafens the words I know he's now yelling. I can see his mouth flying, spit bubbles gathering on his tongue, insults and reprimands silent but painful. I thought it would be more fun hurting this man. The infinitesimal fear in his eyes says differently, registers differently. Something is off, I am off, and when I discover the nature of the abnormality, I know I will be staggered.

Abruptly, shrill buzzing still echoing around my skull, Arthur turns and leaves, abandoning me and his lapse of judgment to the cold, sharp air of the early morning.

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><p><em>Historical Notes:<em>

_Seychelles is currently unoccupied by a native population and it has never been occupied by one before. The year is 1623 (or around here) and the only people who have stumbled across these islands are ancient Arab traders BCE and the Portuguese around the year 1505. _

_However, for the last several years, pirates have been using Seychelles much like they used Tortuga. This what Victoire and Arthur are referring to when they talk about the pirates on her shores._

_If you have any other questions, historical or not, feel free to ask._

**::A/N::**

**The freckled pirate was an Ireland cameo. **

**Translations:  
><strong>**Excusez-moi, mais – (French) – Excuse me, but-  
><strong>**Vous êtes un monster (French) – You are a monster**


	5. Tense

**::A/N:: I don't own Hetalia.**

**Grr, sorry guys, it's been too long since an update. I'm really grateful for your patience, and I hope this is a crowd-pleaser. **

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><p>The black-tinted world comes into focus with drowsy resistance, indistinct smudges sinking into indistinct shapes. The night air is utterly dead, the floor unusually still, and at first I think that the lack of rocking beneath my feet is what woke me.<p>

Then I hear the whimpers. I sit up, and they cease. Bemused, I strain against the cuff on my wrist, leaning as far into the corners of the cabin as I can, thinking that perhaps it was the rats that lurk among the shadows.

Again it plays, a pitiful rhythm in the silence, and the possibility of a rodent infestation seems plausible, more than likely. The suffocating onyx that characterizes the wee hours of the morning seems to become more solid the longer I wait for it to resolve. It ridicules me further by bouncing sounds to and fro; first to my left side, then my right, keeping a step ahead of my senses.

The whimpering grows in volume and tempo, and now it appears that the rats are behind me, not before me, so I turn, wondering if they nest under Captain's cot. I creep forward, hyperaware of every sound that my bare knees make against the wooden floor; curiosity peaked by the vigilante of the hour. My nose is a hair's breath away from Captain's mattress, and once more my hearing reaches out into the night, groping for a sign of the rat I will be quick to chase from the cabin.

Without any movement from my figure, frozen as it is, my nose brushes the rough fabric of the mattress as the entire thing shifts with Captain. Distinctly, awkwardly, I hear him flip to face me, and his hot breath billows out once, twice, three times to caress my face… and with each breath a tiny, fragile whimper tumbles from shivering lips.

My eyes widen in comical shock. Non… it was Captain all along? And it seems to be true, as more, clearer, cries resonate near my temple. My gaze slides to one of his flickering eyelids. I can just make out the eyeball rolling underneath, frantically whizzing back and forth as it watches whatever nightmare Kirkland's brain is playing for him.

I fall back on my heels, wondrously disbelieving of the knowledge that it's _Kirkland's_ fists clenching around his sheets and _Kirkland's _brow gathering terror sweat. I know not whether to laugh or fit my own fingers between his shaking ones.

"Stop!"

My neck snaps up, and I observe his face for any signs of wakeful anger. But there are none, only an unaware tongue making contact with the backs of sleeping teeth. He is slumber-talking.

"What are you doing?! No… No!" he murmurs, still very much a part of his fantasy world. "No! Please…. Please don't hurt him! He's only a child!"

My lip finds its way between my jaws, between my teeth, and with each nibble I hope it is not a memory that Kirkland relives. Another plea falls on helpless ears, to a person who does not understand. Did he say these things when this event first occurred? Did he beg as he does now?

I find myself reaching for his face, his flushed cheek, if only to reassure him that he is not a part of the nightmare, that he is a living and breathing devil of a man with responsibilities. The tip of my finger grazes his cheek, skin soft and downy with invisible hairs. He twitches in his sleep, presses his cheek against my palm, and I am frozen, unsure…

"LAND HO!"

I yank my hand back to my side and throw myself against the wall to drown in shadows as Captain bolts upright, bed frame creaking, boots thudding against the floor. He is out the door faster than the wind can change, never once seeing my crouched form, never once wondering why I am not asleep on the ground.

But before he passes completely across the threshold and onto the main deck, he gives his head a shake and brushes a wondering hand against his cheek.

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><p>Captain's mood has become impossibly worse since both his nightmare and the sighting of land; a week has passed at most.<p>

For all Captain's arrogance, he sleeps like a man on the run; fitful, restless, and haunted. During every thick, swirling, inky night since the first, he awakes, breath quick, eyes frantic, tongue crushed between his teeth so hard that blood squeezes between abused taste buds. The same heartbreaking refrain still keeps me awake and wondering. I'll see his tense silhouette through my slotted eyelids, hunched and hulking, but I have not tried to comfort him again. He'll glance at me feigning sleep for a mere fraction of a second, he'll briefly wonder if I ever hear his fits, and then he'll succumb once more to his thread bare blanket of dreams.

In the morning I will denounce his purple eyes and his pale skin, the fog in his gaze, the bow in his shoulders, but never have I lead him to believe that I know his nightly reoccurring weakness. I do not know why I keep silent. It would only cripple his pride and bolster my power – what little I hold over him.

The sun has long since been left behind in the sky, now hanging low and sullen over the cresting waves. He has been vacant since the morning; for hours, only his agitated voice, raised in his short temper, has passed through the thin cabin walls. My leg, stretched out awkwardly against the unforgiving floor, is home to a repetitive throbbing tightness, my neck to a sharper pain, my left foot to nothing but a pool of tingling, and my stomach lets lose its fruitless war cry.

An oppressive tenacity drapes across the top of my brain, tightening and loosening with every breath I take, like a hand pressing down, smothering thoughts and strength and will. The air is heavy with moisture, dampening my light dress and chilling my skin. The feeling of fog is not uncommon to me.

Because of it, the cabin's lighting is poor, a majority of it cast in mottled shadow. The door is the only source of natural illumination, snapped closed with Captain's equally quick retreat. But the insulation is threadbare, and splits in the cedar are like slits of gray eyes, kind enough to allow my vision to adjust in the quickening gloom. In the distance I can pick up the muted sounds of a ship being run: a rope hitting the deck, commands flying through the fog, boots making a harried rhythm, but the noise comes through broken receptors, dulled by the hours I have spent silent and motionless, though perhaps, less muffled than one might think.

Oh, I am so bored.

The time has passed when I tapped tunes against the floor, created lives I will never live, painted images that will never leave the confines of my mind's eye. I believe those activities rose at noon and set when the sun fell behind the cloak of fog, wane and weary in its shining.

The room has lain dormant, apart from my steady breaths flurrying the air and the occasional shift of stiff joints. The time has trudged through an unbreakable, perfect secluded silence, housing only me and my lonesome thoughts.

Kirkland has not elaborated on the purpose of my being here. He has not brought up Francis again, nor has he explained our destination. By the mutterings of the crew, I infer a pirate port of some kind, an island not so unlike Seychelles. The thought kindles the smallest bloom of hope.

Frustrated, I perk my ears once more, hoping to hear Captain's imminent arrival if only for some human company. Instead, I make out muffled yelling and pounding footsteps. It is odd, for certain, this break in routine. What has everyone so excited? Has a ship been spotted? Have the winds changed? I struggle to find it in myself to care.

Suddenly, the door crashes open, snapping off the wall with a crack that pumps my resting heart into frenzy. The delicate and agonizing balance is shattered. Heavy and familiar boot falls become a decrescendo near my ear, and the dangerously serious face of Kirkland is as clear as day directly above me, his hair hanging down around his tired eyes.

"Sit up," he barks, quickly bending at the knees and dropping to the floor, fingers gripping a slate colored key.

I do so quickly, blood rushing in new directions, leaving me with a faint buzz. I glance briefly into his eyes, narrowed in determination and cupping a pool of concentrated emotions: anger, impatience, need, fear. His fingers shake minutely against the skin of my wrists before the metal prisoner's bracelet falls to the ground.

"What's happening?" I murmur. He doesn't answer, but a garbled yell echoes from the deck, and Kirkland's head whips to attention, neck taut and straining.

"Shit," he hisses, pale dead man's fingers brutally wrapping around my wrist.

"Stop!" I cry, tugging back. "What's happening?"

He ignores me, pulling me up and up until my body is finally righted. The buzz rushes across my skin, dizzying. "Move."

"_Why?_" I hiss, searching for his green eyes under the fringe of blond hair.

"Because I say so," he growls with equal venom, equal promise, and for a moment I hesitate, wondering what could possibly be so wrong.

Kirkland takes full advantage of my lapse and he uses it to yank me forward, propelling us out of the cabin and onto the deck. The air is deadly still and the sky is thick with a fog that curls its fingers into the sea.

The dense walls of mist only serve to amplify the crew's turmoil. They rush forwards and back again, feet pounding into the wooden floor. Ropes are being tightened, dead sails manipulated, orders shouted by panicked men. I direct my gaze to Kirkland, hoping he'll explain, give me some sort of reason for the upheaval and my roll in it.

"Captain!"

We both turn to address the concerns of the harried crew member. He's a thin rail of a man, beady eyes shaky and hooked nose running. His shirt looks too big for his body, his pants too small, and his mouth is a tremulous line.

"She's come out the fog faster than I ever seen. The wind's a-blowing in her sails and she's gaining." His voice is ragged and high-pitched, laced with uncertainty.

I glance up quickly to our own sails; they're stagnant and lifeless, drooping bodies in the still fog. "How can such a thing be possible?"

He looks at me surprised, seeming unsure how to respond to a woman, but too nervous and anxious to spare worry for the insignificant. "It's some sort of witchcraft, ma'am. I've never seen anything like it. There's not a lick of wind on this whole damn ocean or else the fog would be burned away, but this vessel acts like a storm's biting her stern!"

Kirkland is suddenly in the man's face, rigid fingers ripping into his collar as the crewman is lifted above the ground. I gasp and he gasps, but Kirkland's face is a canvas of crackling fury. "What was her figurehead, Slemmons?!"

The man struggles, terrified and cornered. "I dunno, Cap'n! I didn't see it clear! The fog!"

"What the bloody hell did it look like!?"

The commotion on the ship has gone still. I glance behind us and the rest of the crew is watching, on the blade of the knife and interested, waiting to hear the final word.

"A-," the man stutters, "a b-bull, sir. If I was to wager, I'd say the figurehead was a bull!"

Kirkland swears colorfully, a quilt of obscenities that block up my ears. He drops Slemmons to the deck. The startled man stumbles up and backwards into the bulwarks.

"What is it?!" I demand of Kirkland, my spirits on edge. The atmosphere on deck teeters between tense and desperate; it is an impropriety that fits fear in every heart.

"Captain?" another man asks.

Kirkland's eyes are narrowed and just a little bit wild, his fist clenched around the hilt of his sword. "It's Carriedo and his Witch."


	6. Deadly Confrontation

**::A/N:: Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. **

**Thank you so much for your patience! Shit gets real in this chapter, and the actual plot, the one I've been hinting at for far too long now, is finally coming to fruition. The dialogue between characters might be confusing, but that is its nature.**

**Enjoy**

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><p>Kirkland spins on his heel and takes the deck in deep strides, eyes roving the span of the gray sea all about him. He's harried and anxious, adding intangible figures and calculating losses I daren't think about, not now, not with land still miles away. The crew seems to mirror their first in command; fear hides behind shaking fingers and agitated activity. They apparently understand the gravity of the situation, yet I do not.<p>

"What?! What do you mean 'his Witch'?" I gasp, keeping pace with Kirkland only at a half-jog. "Who is Carriedo? How can he sail without wind?" I glance over my shoulder once more and indeed, the looming monster is only closer. It is witchcraft; it must be, for how else could a ship fly with not a lick of breeze? The sky is dead silent, hung heavy with fog, yet this enemy approaches without fail. "Kirkland!"

He rounds on me, eyes flashing. "Does now look like a bloody righteous time to explain things?!" he shouts, startling the silence that has befallen the rigorously laboring crew. "I cannot attend to my duties with you trailing at my coattails!"

"But-!"

"_Victoire_," he hisses, clasping my shoulder in an iron grip. He uses my name, my real name, not an insulting derogation, not a butchered English equivalent. It freezes me in place. "Trust me and be quiet, for the love of whatever heathen God you hold dear, or so help me we will all go down with this useless scrap of wood."

I nod blindly and he steps away.

"Men!" he bellows, drawing the eyes of everybody on deck. "We are at an inopportune disadvantage. The winds do not blow and we cannot turn. I sympathize with your fear, and yet I urge you to behoove yourselves and remember your responsibilities as seafaring gentlemen! You will not fire until we are in range, you will not fire until there is a clean shot, or may you die at the hands of a smarter enemy. Your guns are only as accurate as your wits, your swords only as sharp as your minds. There will be silence until Carriedo has said his piece. Do I make myself perfectly understood?"

There is unanimous confirmation.

"Keep your arms at the ready. Carriedo does not enter my waters unless he has an agenda. He will be invited on our deck, he will bring his ship dangerously close, and when I make myself clear, he _will _be taken out."

I shudder, stepping as far back as I dare, pressing my body against the walls of the deck, my shoulder blades cushioned by cascading ropes. Whatever is taking place, whatever malevolence has its hand in our fate, I cannot understand it. I leave the confines of Kirkland's cabin for mere minutes, and already our lives are in danger. If this is the way of the pirate, I have no pretenses for grandeur any more. Not when they are like ravenous beasts that roam an endless forest, only meeting to slaughter and steal. I do not understand it.

And it seems I will not, for this enemy, this 'Carriedo', is less than minutes away. The lines that are strung between his masts become clearer, dark hatch marks against the slate gray fog. The men on board, all browned and fierce, thick-browed and burly, heave the ropes and steady a rusted-iron anchor. Yet as far as I can discern, as much as I understand about the art of sailing, this ship moves as if by magic, creating a wake of foaming water impossible in these still winds. It chills me to the very bone.

The enemy figurehead is indeed that of a bull. The face, whittled out of pine, is heavily sanded down, and only the barest of features are still visible. Its eyes are narrowed, the teeth were once bared in a terrible snarl, and the chips in the cheeks make the animal look emaciated. A terrible harbinger, it glides in a perfectly silent trajectory straight for Kirkland's stern, until it veers violently to the left, the bull's horns narrowly missing the Captain's cabin windows.

The men on our decks grow eerily silent, the only rhythm a dull slap of rope on wood, of line on sail. Kirkland strides through the center, eyes hard, mouth a thin line. Do his men already know this drill? Have they lived through this before? Does a pirate captain often attack another?

Clearly, I fear. The faces of this enemy hull brush dangerously near; edge into what is painfully evident to be too-close, too brazen a distance. What fool plays his hand so recklessly? He could sink us both. Yet, this Spanish ship, (its name, _El Toro Canta_, betrays its nationality), has no sense of self-preservation. They have come with purpose, and only Kirkland seems to know what it might be.

Now that the enemy is close enough to read his lips, they are upturned in a half-smirk. His shoulders are stiff, but his knees bend, a sailor's knees, and it gives the would-be impression of relaxation. I press myself further back, further in the shadows, my own legs shaking, legs that scratch against barrels of rum in their scramble for safety.

As quickly as it caught up to us, the ship suddenly stops. The crew does not throw down the anchor, and they do not need to, for this ghost vessel is frozen, like a giant hand holds it still. Their deck is no taller than ours, and I peer over the gunnel for a clearer view. The men on board are more frightening up close, mouths in a snarling line. Swords gleam at their belts and pistols in their pockets, and I am suddenly struck by how overwhelmingly under-armed I really am. Should they come aboard, should a fight break out now, there is nothing that stands between me and one of these thieves but a barrel of rum.

"Carriedo!" Kirkland bellows, striding forward to lean over the edge of our ship. "Where the bloody hell are you?"

At the sound of easy footsteps, my line of vision snaps upward. Walking down the stairs from the wheel of the adjacent ship is none other than perhaps the most light-hearted looking man I have ever seen. His hair is long and utterly wild, tied back loosely into a ponytail and tucked into the collar of his carmine coat. His skin is as dark as the earth, but his eyes, his eyes are as bright as the sun, if the sun shone a hummingbird green. He smiles, a remarkable feat it seems for a pirate of the seven seas, and takes his deck in familiar strides. "I was manning my own ship," he laughs, "something you really must brush up on, friend."

Kirkland seems perfectly unaffected by Carriedo's butter-voice. "As though you can claim anything of the sort when your personal whore does all the work for you. He even sews your wind."

I raise my eyebrow. The smile doesn't leave Carriedo's face. "Say what you will, Kirkland, your tongue has gotten you shot at more than once before."

"As has yours."

Carriedo shrugs, and a breeze I do not feel runs through his hair. "You might want to actually allow a parlay to take place tonight, Brit, before you insult your way into the Locker. I believe I have something you will take interest in."

Kirkland snaps his fingers, and two members of our crew rush forward, a gangplank between them. "Come aboard, then, and let us parlay," he purrs, superfluously removing his feathered hat and sweeping it into a mocking bow.

Turning back briefly to his men, Carriedo mutters something, a garbled something, before nodding assent. "I suppose etiquette allows me that this is an honor."

"Won't your whore accompany you?" Kirkland asks, with virtual disinterest, but the manic spark in his eyes alludes to something deeper, more personal. The rivalry between the two men is so solid it could serve as its own gangplank.

"So you can shoot him again?" Carrideo counters, a vein jumping at his temple.

"Oh shut the fuck up."

Carriedo turns as if he's been stung, and I follow his line of sight to another man, a new man, crossing _El Toro's_ deck, a second, confident, easy, character who eyes us as though we are nothing, who eyes Kirkland as though he is less.

"_Lovino_," the Spanish Captain hisses, and for the first time he loses his façade. There is _fear _there now, palpable and ominous.

"For Godssake," Kirkland laughs, tickled by this display the likes of which I have never seen before between two men. All eyes follow this lean red amber frame – for this coarse-spoken sailor with the flyaway curl is all reds and browns and subtle golds – but Carriedo's do so in a way that reveals too much devotion. "Hasn't your Witch earned his place yet? Has your scar faded yet, Sorcerer?"

My stomach flip-flops. This is the spell-caster? This is the controller of the seas and of the winds? He is so brazen, so uninterestedly available that I feel as though we are foolish prey. For why else does the hunter reveal himself if not in recognition of an easy slaughter?

"No," Lovino says shortly, crossing the gangplank _in front _of his captain. "Has yours?"

Kirkland growls. "Hardly."

"Like mine, it never will." Lovino's face is impassive, but Kirkland is bristling, and I wonder how this can be about broken skin, about ugly marring.

Carriedo finally drops onto our deck as well, his expression much stonier than it was earlier, his posture much less at ease. "Are you prepared to listen to me? Because your alternative is significantly bloodier than your barbed words."

"I know why you have come," Kirkland replies, flippantly donning his hat. "It is about Francis."

My blood runs cold. Francis? Papa? Is it the same man? Does Carriedo know him as well?

Nodding assent, the Spaniard waves his hand airily into the fog. "We both know what he has… recently set out to acquire."

"We do."

"And he has found it, in case you were unawares."

Kirkland growls, "No, I was quite under the impression that the whole world knew."

"As it may be, I have… interests concerning the nature of his document." Lovino shifts beside him, a twitch in his brow. "And I know you have interests concerning the nature of your … _grudge_."

Kirkland's expression is sardonic, and his foots taps an impatient tune. "How clever you must think you are."

Lovino opens his mouth, but a hand from his captain seals his lips shut again. "I want what he has, and you want him not to have it anymore. I see potential to coordinate our desires."

"You would," Kirkland snorts, and for the first time, he relaxes. "You do realize you play a dangerous game, Carriedo. You tend to lose allies with an ace up both sleeves."

"I have the most powerful ally on the sea."

"I suppose. Unless I shoot him again." When Carriedo takes a menacing step forward to cover the Witch with his own body, Arthur only laughs. "You think I am so foolish as to trust you? You have every desire to end _me, _as I have every desire to make amends to those I have lost. Yet neither is possible. It shall be a cold day in hell when I allow you on the same ship as me, Carriedo."

"You're awfully confident for a poor man."

"You would be in my shoes."

"Is the negro girl your lucky hand?" Carriedo asks, grin dancing around his mouth again. "Thought that was a big secret?"

I have never been so afraid, quite so exposed as I feel being discussed on the tongue of this man who has bewitched a magician, of this man who can sail without wind. Whatever it was I believed about my purpose here before, it has been expounded now, shattered and built greater. These men are the kings of the sea, and the knowledge that I am of any consequence to them is terrifying indeed.

The roses of Kirkland's pale face are now bleached in fear. Whatever my role to play on this ship, it was to be one hidden, one that Kirkland could play at any given moment. Now this man Carriedo has usurped us – yes us, for even unwilling I have been bid to participate-, and I do not know of whom I am more afraid.

"You cannot possibly think that with her, I would ally myself with you," Kirkland argues, knuckles clenching. His men have sensed his unease, all of our hearts have been touched by this understanding, and I wonder when the tables turned.

Carriedo shrugs, stepping backwards towards his own ship, dancing eyes flicking from face to English face. "I thought it was more polite to give you a chance. Lovino almost didn't let me, you know. Though I dearly hoped you would refuse me, friend. And now you have."

"What gain is it to you?" Kirkland challenges, following him across the deck, stride for stride. "You will take the girl? Use my spoils as a stolen bargaining chip?"

"Hardly," Antonio grins, halting his retreat to meet Kirkland head on. "I will kill her, and I will kill you, and I will be so terribly heartbroken to have to bring the news to my dearest friend that his daughter has been slaughtered at the hand of his greatest enemy, but that I took just retribution for it."

Kirkland sneers, inches away from Carriedo's face. "And you expect him to just give his spoils to you? To believe your story?"

"Well, what use will that document be to him if his only reason for living is gone? You should understand that well enough, _Arthur_."

Kirkland reacts so fast, we hardly see it happen. One minute his face is that of a broken man, reminiscent to the moments after he wakes from his night terrors, and then the next, the knife at his waist is in Carriedo's side. Lovino is yelling, the crews of both ships are scrambling, Carriedo is hitting the deck, and Kirkland is whipping out his pistol, eyes on fire and head aloft. He leaves Carriedo bleeding out on his knees to steady the men and position what firepower I know he must own.

Wrenching the hilt of the blade from between his own ribs, Antonio yells, "Lovino, _go._"

A spasm of indecision flashes across Lovino's face. He has one foot on the ship's rails, the other on the deck, and he looks desperately like he wants to forget everything, whatever plan they had set, and pull his captain to safety.

Carriedo seems to sense this, and with an agonizing effort, he heaves himself to his feet, and bellows once more, "GO!"

Once the Spaniard takes his first stumbling steps across the gangplank, when one of the other crew members rushes to his aid, only then does Lovino push himself up onto the railing… and out into the black ocean.

Chaos has descended upon both ships. The Englishmen are firing, though in all the smoke and fog, it is impossible to tell how accurate they are. Either way, it creates panicked confusion, and I duck as low as I dare behind the rum barrels, terrified by the idea that I have no weapon with which to protect myself, that as a _female_ prisoner I mean next to nothing, that I may never see my beloved island again, and that I may never be given the chance to wrap my arms around Francis and thank him for all he has ever done for me.

The first cataclysmic explosion rips through the air, and I can't tell who fired and who's been hit. The sound of splintering wood and screaming men deafen my ears to everything. Members of _El Toro_ have come aboard Kirkland's vessel. Swords are flashing; guns are thrown to the side, and even caught in my corner I know blood is being spilled, is staining the wooden deck a sickly brown that will never wash away.

The floor beneath my feet shakes, and the entire ship is thrown to the side. We've been hit, I cannot bear to think about it, not as I am thrown from my hiding place and left in the open. The rum barrels bounce past me and smash free against the masts and the gunnel, releasing amber alcohol that burns the wounds of the fallen.

Scrambling up from my hands and knees, I rip an abandoned sword out of the chest of one of these corpses (one of ours, I recognize him as the ginger drunkard who pushed me into the sea) and assess just what is taking place.

Skirmishes have erupted all across our deck, men are fighting, yielding, dying. Kirkland is nowhere to be seen, not in this anarchy.

A third crack breaks the silence. At first, at first I assume it to be another cannon ball, another crippling blow dealt to the side of our hull. But then, by some divinely cruel entity, I realize that the sky has darkened, that the fog has been replaced by clouds as thick as burlap. Lightning and thunder make such a bright crescendo. Everything is surreal, each howling man lit up for the briefest of seconds before everything fades again. The wind whips through our sails, yet it comes from all directions. The sea boils, waves suddenly springing from nothing, and they crash mercilessly, endlessly into bow and stern. Water floods across the floor, dislodging my feet, and I slip, hands landing in a puddle of diluted blood. My stomach curdles.

I am blind by the will of the water, I submit to the scalding lash of the wind. I hear panicked yelling that this is the work of the Witch. That we will never again see the sun, not as long as his lover bleeds to death in their marriage bed.

There is a terrible, earth-shattering groaning over the drums of thunder, and in front of my very eyes, under my trembling hands, the entire ship splits in two, trenches that drop straight into the sea radiate from the center mast. I am screaming, I must be, and when everything falls away, when I tumble desperately into the mouth of the beast, into the vengeful stomach of a man losing what he loves, my last thought is of Francis, is of Arthur.

When I hit the water there is nothing but crushing silence, and for that I am thankful.

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><p><strong>El Toro Canta (Spanish) - The Bull Sings <strong>

**Please review. I cannot improve without your critiques. Thoughtful comments are most appreciated. **


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